Offhanded Comments
by Tim C. Girl
Summary: Or the one where Felicity has her arms full of Playboy Oliver. One-shot.


_I've been reading way too much Olicity fic since I went through the whole first season in a single weekend, and it's bugging me how often Felicity is portrayed as a doe-eyed swooning damsel-in-distress prime for Oliver to rescue-slash-sweep her off her feet. Don't get me wrong, it makes for some really good stories, but the Felicity I saw on the show, with the colourful clothes and lipstick, and the genius and the computer know-how is not exactly that type of woman, in my mind. (Might be the fellow computer geek in me wanting to stand up for her… Or just the feminist in me, I guess.) As for Oliver, my opinion, in short, is that even five years on the island can't have taken the playboy (and what it means for his taste in women) out of him completely. So while I totally 'ship Olicity, I'd be really, really disappointed if the show took their relationship in any form of a romantic direction (just as I'll be really disappointed if Oliver and Laurel are in any semblance of a stable relationship come season two, mind you), so this is my answer to that slightly dysfunctional desire of mine to see a strong woman not be reduced to the blonde swooning princess. I hope you enjoy anyway!_

_This could probably be placed anywhere after McKenna leaves, but before they learn of the Undertaking and Oliver gets it into his head that he might have a shot with Laurel. The specific episodes are a total blur in my mind, sorry._

_(Oh, and if you think Felicity can ramble, just try getting through one of my fics without taking a breath between sentences. I dare you. Especially seeing as I wrote this in the middle of the night. When I should have been SLEEPING. You can thank __**cretin**__ for the beta – any remaining mistakes are mine.)_

* * *

It all starts with an offhand comment.

Well, it's not offhandedly delivered, because her tone is too sharp and her voice too loud, but she doesn't actually mean it. In her defense, she's already annoyed from a long hellish day at the office – hell, a long _week_ – and Peter from Accounting was making dumb blondes jokes (dumb dumb-blondes jokes, actually) in the employee lounge when she grabbed a cup of coffee. Besides, the guys from her department have been treating her as one of the boys even more than usual lately, and she's always annoyed when they reach that point where they forget she's not interested in their manly-man conversations (that's usually when she takes the really short skirts and the slightly-plunging necklines out of the back of her closet for a few days), and maybe, just maybe, the lack of a full night's sleep since she's started moonlighting as the vigilante's geeky sidekick is starting to show. In any case, her fuse is shorter than short, and it's not like she doesn't already have a history of talking before thinking when it comes to Oliver.

Actually, maybe it's more appropriate to say that it starts about five minutes earlier, when Oliver and Diggle join her in the basement of Verdant (she can't decide if she wants to call it a lair or Oliver's man-cave yet) while having a heated argument. Meaning that Digg is using his serious no-nonsense voice to tell Oliver some hard truths he probably doesn't want to hear, and Oliver is sending him heated glares in return. Felicity doesn't know what brought on their little face-off (if she had three guesses, she'd say Laurel, Laurel, and Laurel), but Digg is laying it all out about needing someone to talk to, and how it's not fair to expect people to trust you when you're lying to them half the time, and Oliver snaps.

"Well, I guess I'll end up an old lonely man then, seeing as the only people I don't have to lie to are you and Felicity!"

Seriously, she needs to invest in brain-to-mouth filters, because she did _not_ mean to reply.

"Nice to know I'm not girlfriend material."

To be fair though, it's almost worth the embarrassment to see the deer-in-the-headlights look on Oliver's face. She's not looking at Diggle, because she can feel his mirth from ten feet away and she _knows_ she'll start babbling the moment she sees that twinkle in his eye.

So instead she turns back to her computers and the search she's been working on, and tries to pretend like her complexion is naturally this shade of red. Like she said, it's not like she doesn't have a history of talking without thinking when it comes to Oliver, and he's good at ignoring it for the most part, so she'll just finish this and–

"I didn't mean it that way, Felicity," Oliver says, and his tone is so subdued, so repentant, that she's turning her chair to face him before she can think about it. There's a pattern there, she knows.

He's closer than she expects, just a couple feet from her and looking for all the world like a little puppy who knows he's just peed on the really nice carpet and is really very sorry about it. Actually, she doesn't think she's ever seen Oliver this honest about any emotion but anger, and Felicity suddenly realises that out of the two of them, he's the one who's hurt about what should have been innocuous offhanded comments. She's certainly not – she knows he didn't mean it as a dig against her, and she really blames the lack of sleep and general annoyance with all the men in her life for her reply. She didn't mean to make him feel guilty, that's for sure. The guy's got enough of that on his shoulders as it is.

"Don't worry about it Oliver, I didn't take it personally," she replies with a smile, really wishing she'd learned to keep her mouth shut at some point in her life. Especially when she realises that her words have the opposite effect of putting an end to the discussion: Oliver is looking even _more_ guilty. "Seriously. No harm done. I know I'm not your type of woman."

And apparently, she's just digging the hole deeper and deeper. She hasn't seen that sad, dejected look on Oliver's face in a while, and she sure never wanted to be the one to put it there. She really doesn't know how to make things better, though, and she's saved from saying anything else when Oliver leans forward a little and looks her squarely in the eyes.

"You're a beautiful woman, Felicity."

She blushes. Of course she blushes – Oliver Queen is complimenting her with a very earnest look, and it's not like she gets called a beautiful woman every day. Even if she'd like it, she doesn't exactly hang out with the right crowd for that. IT geeks and vigilantes… except the man standing close in front of her right now is not Starling City's hooded saviour. This is definitely Playboy Oliver.

And with that thought, Felicity knows exactly how to handle the situation.

"Right. Thank you. Try to remember that," she says with a teasing smile, breaking eye contact with him to turn back to her computer screens once again when she sees him relax and grin back at her. Situation averted.

Or so she thinks.

* * *

Her first clue that the conversation hasn't been swept under the rug completely comes the next evening. It's still early (ish) but they're not going to get anything more done on Edward Meyer's case tonight, not until her bots can finish going through all the files she hacked off his private servers and they get a better sense of just what (and how much) he is guilty of. Diggle has gone home to Carly in time to put his nephew to bed, so it's just her and Oliver, who's been lurking somewhere in the area set up for training, although she hasn't heard him in a while.

Which is a perfectly good excuse for the small "eep" of surprise she lets out when he suddenly appears next to her as she is shutting off the screens and gathering her purse. Oliver arches an eyebrow at her, but refrains from commenting at least. She really should be used to his ninja skills by now, but her brain just can't seem to comprehend how a guy with such an imposing presence can move so silently.

"Done for the night?" he asks, gesturing vaguely towards the now black computer screens. His tone tells her that he's making small talk, not questioning why she doesn't have anything on Meyer yet. His intensity levels are as low as she's seen them, and it's nice to see. He looks relaxed – as much as he ever is anyway.

"The computers need to do their work, and I'm going to get a few extra hours of sleep," she replies. He nods at her, probably agreeing to her need for more sleep (they've had that talk about her already having a day job which prevents her from sleeping until noon after their recurring late nights – he suggested getting her days off by pretexting special projects for him, and she flatly refused any sort of special treatment that might look suspicious), and he moves a few steps back so she can stand away from the desk. She turns to grab the light jacket off the back of her chair, but his hands are faster, and he holds it out for her to slip her arms into the sleeves.

Felicity hesitates for a moment, raising her eyes to see his face open and passive. It's a simple gesture, a nice one even, but one he's never done for her, and she's confused. She doesn't want to seem ungrateful though, so she turns her back to him and lets him settle the jacket over her shoulders. His hands smooth out the fabric before he steps back and makes a show of offering her his arm to help her to the stairs.

She tries not to appear flustered, but Oliver is not exactly the touchy type (unless it's to punch or hit, admittedly), and she can count on her fingers the number of times he's touched her willingly. Not that she _is_ counting. Or that he goes out of his way to avoid contact, he's just… a generally closed-off person. So she's understandably surprised when he moves his hand to rest lightly at the small of her back as they ascend the stairs side-by-side, and keeps it there as he opens the doors for her until they reach her car behind the club.

Who can honestly blame her for having babbled about the bots rooting information out of Meyer's data all the way up? She finally manages to stop her continuous flow of words as she remotely unlocks her car door and glances at Oliver as he opens it for her. His amusement is apparent in his small smile, but it's the fond kind that she also gets from Diggle when she's talking tech, and she smiles back.

"Thank you for escorting me to my car," she tells him as she slips into the driver's seat. Usually Digg is the one making sure she's safely on her way home, and he's never quite this… showy about it. She knows what Oliver's doing though, and she thinks it's ridiculous, but she won't call him on it yet.

"Drive safe," he tells her, moving out of the way so she can close the door. "Good night." His words are muffled by the car door, but she acknowledges them with a smile and a small wave before driving away.

She can't help but grin all the way to her apartment, shaking her head a little at his antics. Playboy Oliver is funny.

* * *

She's not finding him funny at all three days later when she comes into the office to find a bouquet of flowers displayed in a lovely vase on her desk. She hasn't had nearly enough sleep, having been up until the wee hours of the morning providing comm-support as Oliver and Digg busted Meyer's smuggling operation wide open, and she doesn't have nearly enough caffeine in her system yet to deal with the repercussions the bouquet is sure to have.

She works with fellow IT geeks. Ones who barely acknowledge she's a girl, most of the time. Flowers on her desk are _not_ going to fly under the radar.

It's a very nice bouquet, she has to give him that. Not a huge one, either, and she's surprised that Oliver even knows the meaning of 'low-key'. It's composed of several different flowers, most of which she doesn't know the name of, but all with cheerful colours, oranges and purples most prominent. It's beautiful, she admits, and very much to her tastes, which she has to give him credit for.

Her benevolent feelings go out the proverbial window not ten minutes later when the whole IT department is suddenly either crammed into her office or not-subtly-at-all hanging out in her doorway while Rick makes a show of reading the small card she didn't see hiding in the foliage. "Thanks for last night, you were great."

At least he didn't sign it. She's still going to kill him. Slowly.

"Who's the lucky guy, Felicity?" some brave soul out in the hallway calls out, making the others snicker as Rick puts the card back into the flowers exaggeratedly carefully, mimicking fluffing out the greenery and repositioning the vase as if he'd put it off-centre. She glares at him until he raises his hands in defense, backing away a few steps while grinning like a lunatic. She definitely needs more coffee.

"It's not what you think," she starts to explain, even though she knows it's futile and she'll be the centre of the office gossip for the day (at least). "I helped out a friend last night and he's grateful. That's all."

There are more snickers, but people exit her office, and she is left alone with the offending arrangement. She groans and lets her head down until it meets the desk, closing her eyes for a brief pep-talk to herself so she can face the day.

It mostly consists of thinking of all the sharp and pointy things she has easy access to in the basement, and how to use them to inflict as much pain as possible. Except she wouldn't really – she's seen Oliver's scars and she would _never_ want to add to them (the physical _or_ the psychological ones). So she'll have to resort to glaring at him. Really hard.

Which is what she does that evening, as well as giving him the silent treatment, much to Diggle's amusement (she's _so_ glad someone is finding this funny). Oliver seems largely unaffected by her behaviour, but he _does_ apologise for the unwanted attention his "small token of appreciation" brought her, and she finds herself forgiving him before the night is over, despite her best intentions.

"Don't do it again," she very sternly advises him when she's on her way out. He's standing at the bottom of the stairs in his training clothes (which is to say he's shirtless, damn the man) while she stands on the third step, giving her the height advantage for once.

"I won't. I promise," he declares very solemnly, keeping eye contact the way he does when he's earnest. Felicity can feel the blush rising on her cheeks and curses herself. "I didn't think it might embarrass you, I'm sorry."

She nods, and wishes him a good night before climbing out and going home. She knew, realistically, that she wouldn't be able to stay mad at him forever, and hopefully the whole thing at the office will have blown over come Monday morning (she took the flowers home after work, since hiding the evidence seemed her best guess to make the department forget about it). She's ready to forgive and forget.

Until there's a knock on her door at an ungodly hour on Saturday morning (it's barely past 10 AM), and she's faced with a _humongous_ arrangement of flowers in possibly every colour imaginable.

The card simply says 'I'm sorry. Couldn't resist.'

She scares the delivery boy off with her swearing.

* * *

It gets even worse after that. There aren't any more flower deliveries, thankfully, and Oliver is careful not to add fuel to the gossip fire at the office (Rick still smirks and waggles his eyebrows every time he sees her), but there are an increasing number of small gestures. Nice gestures. Thoughtful gestures. Gestures that say 'you're a wonderful woman and I appreciate you.'

Playboy Oliver is in fine form. Felicity thinks she might have unwittingly unleashed a monster. (Diggle just grins a lot.)

She's ambivalent on how to take it all, honestly. While the girly part of her appreciates all the attention from an undoubtedly handsome man (he certainly hasn't toned down on the shirtlessness, either), the bigger realistic and down-to-earth part is annoyed with him for taking it so far. He's sorry his comment implied that he didn't see her as a woman worth his time, she gets it. But the simple fact of it is that it's true – she's not his type, just like he's not really hers (why date good-looking playboy billionaires when there are perfectly awkward geeks out there?)

So after a couple of weeks, Felicity decides that enough is enough, and she needs to have a talk with the man. Except she has no idea how to explain any of it to him. How do you tell a guy that his perfectly innocent behaviour makes her uncomfortable? When it doesn't, not really, increasingly frequent babbling notwithstanding. It's the obvious difference between 'pre-comment Oliver' and 'post-comment Oliver' that makes her uneasy. While still unquestionably focused on the list of names in his father's book, he's much lighter-tempered when not in his hooded getup. And that's a _good_ thing. She just wishes it didn't come at the expense of her frayed nerves.

Oliver is touching her daily now. A pat on the shoulder when she delivers useful information on a target, a hand at the small of her back as he escorts her to her car, a squeeze of her hand or arm to stop her from rambling. He also comments on her clothes ("Is that a new shirt? That colour looks great on you."), and finds a different way to say she's beautiful every couple of days.

If he was any other guy, she would have shut him down by now. Or asked him out, possibly, because hell – she doesn't get good-looking billionaires chasing after her all that much. But Oliver isn't doing it to get her to go out with him, or even to get in her pants. At first it was an apology, but now? It's gone on too long to still be about that stupid comment, and she has no idea why he hasn't reverted back to his usual grouchy and moody self.

Not that she wishes he would. Man, it's complicated.

"Hey, what's up?" The man in question breaks her out of her thoughts as he leans back onto the desk right next to her chair, a hand on her upper arm to catch her attention. He's just come from the club upstairs, dressed in a very nice suit with his shirt open at the collar, and wearing an easygoing smile that doesn't look forced at all. This is the Oliver he probably would be if he wasn't trying to rid the city of all its corrupt elements, and Felicity can't bring herself to break the spell.

Her face must be showing her thoughts though, because Oliver turns somber and raises an inquisitive eyebrow at her. "Anything the matter?" he asks softly, leaning towards her as his hand rubs lightly on her upper arm. Why she never figured out before that Oliver Queen is a natural flirt is a mystery to her. She doesn't think he's even aware that he's still touching her.

She shakes her head in the negative, not trusting herself not to start babbling out all her thoughts if she tries to speak, but Oliver won't have it.

"Felicity…" he drags out her name reproachfully, trying to coax her out. When she still doesn't say anything, he sighs and straightens, dropping his hand from her arm. "Is this about me? About… my behaviour? I'm sorry if it bothers you," he starts to say, and a small part of her is amused to realise that he's about to start babbling himself.

The larger part doesn't want him to feel guilty on her account again.

"It's not _bothering_ me, Oliver," she interrupts quickly, turning to face him so he'll know she's not lying. "I think it's sweet, and I'm flattered, really, but that's the thing, isn't it? You're doing it to apologise, and you really don't have to, because there isn't anything to apologise for, and I don't want you to think you need all these gestures to keep me on the team." She's holding his gaze, and she can almost see the gears turning in his head, processing her words.

It doesn't take him long to answer. "I'm not doing it so you'll stay on the team, and I'm not doing it to apologise," he starts, his words slow and clear. She's getting used to his earnest face, slowly, but it's still unnerving to be the focus of all that intensity. "There aren't a lot of people I can be completely myself with, these days, and I've realised that it's important that there _are_. You're one of those people, Felicity, and I appreciate your presence in my life–"

"And my mad computer skills," she interrupts despite herself.

He grins ruefully. "It helps," he concedes. "But you're becoming a friend, and that's more important to me. Diggle was right when he said I need people I don't have to lie to, whether in words or in behaviour. I'm sorry if my natural conduct around a good-looking woman is making you uncomfortable. I'll try to tone it down," he finishes with a self-deprecating grin.

Felicity is torn between wanting to punch him in the arm (she'd probably hurt herself), and hug him to death.

Instead, she sighs dramatically and rolls her eyes at him. "The things I endure for you…" she drawls, and she's happy to see his grin change into a full-blown smile. "It's not like I _mind_ all the attention from a gorgeous-looking man," she says before she can sensor her words, and Oliver raises both eyebrows at her, obviously waiting for the incoming panic-induced rambling. She sticks her tongue out at him instead, and is rewarded with the sound of his laughter, real and happy. She beams a little.

"But no more flowers," she states semi-sternly when his chuckles have died down.

"No more flowers," he agrees good-naturedly.

"Or any other gifts," she amends quickly because something tells her he consented too easily.

She's right.

"I can't make that promise," Oliver tells her in a playful tone while standing up from his perch on the desk, walking to his training area. There's a lightness to his steps, to his posture, like the weight of the whole world isn't quite so heavy tonight.

"At least don't have them delivered to the office," she shouts after him, and his laughter echoes in the cavernous basement. She smiles, proud that she's managed to make Oliver Queen laugh twice in such a short period.

Friends, she reflects as she turns back to the computers. She can work with that.

* * *

_See what I did there, with Edward Meyer's name? No? Never mind. Like I said, lack of sleep._

_Reviews and constructive criticism are most welcome – what do you know, they might even motivate me to write some more, now that inspiration seems to have struck once again. If only the muses would let me SLEEP._


End file.
